Always
by sarahleighlove
Summary: AU. "So, I just had a near-death experience at the age of thirteen, both of my parents are dead, I'm wearing a dumb floral hospital gown, and you don't expect me to snap at you?" She looks at him pointedly, "I think you need to realize that I'm going to be an emotional train wreck for a while, and that Angel is a really dumb name." Eventual Bangel.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The usual shebang. I own nothing, all of this is fictional, yadda yadda yadda.**

* * *

The girl in the purple and the girl in the yellow both love to dance. They both love just to twirl and laugh as the ceiling spins above their heads. Maybe, if the odd number of miles didn't separate the two girls, they could be friends.

But neither of their fates would allow that.

The girl in the yellow is a bit tipsy. Her brown ringlets spill over her tan shoulders, onto the strapless sunny dress she just loves. The boy with platinum hair dances along with her, smiling because she's so alive and happy. It's her first day of summer; seventeen and ready to start senior year in the fall. She never thought she would make it this far.

The girl in the purple laughs; her oversized green eyes crinkling at the corners of her pale, creamy skin. Her golden blonde hair is pulled up neatly into a dancer's bun. Her violet leotard stands out in the group of girls all in pale pinks and blues; but she's always loved to stand out. She's younger than all of her friends—thirteen—but her airy laugh and sarcasm makes everyone gravitate towards her.

They're both so different—so unique and lively—nobody would ever assume the two girls are also exactly alike where it counts.

They both turn to leave. The girl in purple's mom and dad wait outside her dance class to take her out for dinner. The girl in yellow's internal radar is going off; it's time to kill.

The girl in the purple splashes through a puddle, pulling a pair of sweatpants onto her long legs—that her body hasn't yet caught up to in the growing stage yet—and racing towards the tan Sedan running in the gravel parking lot. She swings her messenger bag into the leather back seat and her rain boot-clad feet right behind it. She jabbers on twenty miles a minute to her smiling parents about dances and music and friends and whatever else the world has thrown at the sunny girl in the past day.

The girl in the yellow taps the platinum boy's shoulder and whispers something into his ear. He nods and lets her grab his hand and lead him outside into the wet night. It drizzles around them and the streetlights creating hazy, orange phosphorescence around the shadows of their bodies. They pad gingerly down a dark alley, rocks and shards of glass crunching under their shoes. She pulls out the stake strapped to the outside of her thigh and he grabs the one from the pocket of his long feather duster.

The girl in the purple slouches back in her seat, eyelids fluttering dangerously on the brink of sleep. She's tired from dance rehearsals and wouldn't mind taking a nap on the way out to dinner. Her parents talk quietly in the front seat and the metallic pings of rain drumming against the roof lull her into a peaceful dream.

The girl in the yellow spots them—three men—crouched down over a young girl under a fire escape. She motions to the boy and he nods, creeping towards the figures with a motive. She charges right at them, taking one on by surprise. The platinum boy takes the other two from the back, delivering swift kicks and punches and a few witty one-liners. She crouches over the young girl, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

The girl in the purple jolts from her slumber and stiffens as the tires of the Sedan squeal across wet asphalt. She grips the seating, knuckles white, and looks up worriedly. She can see the panic on her parent's faces from the rear-view mirror as her father struggles to keep the car on the road. The rain falls down in sheets and she can't see out any of the windows.

"Just fine," the girl replies, snapping her head up to meet the dark-haired girl's gaze. Her face is twisted into a demonic mask and lunges at the girl quickly, sinking pointed teeth into the smooth curve of her neck.

"Buffy, hold on!" Her mother screams from the front seat, as the car careens off the slick road into the highway barrier. She can't even scream—her body only allows her to hold on and send pleas up to God.

And the darkness the girls both encounter—both on the same rainy, California night—is strangely comforting. A blanket wrapped around their shoulders to fade the searing pain.

* * *

**Review please!**


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy wakes up to a _really _obnoxious beeping sound crashing through her dreams.

She rolls over, groaning into her pillow, and reaches to smash the snooze button of her alarm clock all the way down to Mexico. She blindly fumbles, wincing at the pain in her arm. She can hardly even move.

Her eyelids snap open, squinting against the harsh light, as she sits up. Tubes twist and turn all around her, piercing her pale skin and running up her nose. Machines beep all around the little bed she's tucked up into. The room is white and smells of bleach and it's all wrong.

Someone's sprawled out in the chair next to the door, dark locks mused and purple bags under his eyes. He's handsome, in a roguish way, and Buffy has the sudden urge to wring his throat because _why the hell is she here. _

"Hey…" She calls out to him, voice unpleasantly cracking. She twists her hands uneasily in her rough sheets and clears her throat, tears pricking at her eyes. She wipes her eyes off with the back of her hands a tries to breathe normally, but she can even admit that she's scared out of her wits right now.

"Wake up, please," Buffy pleads, a bit louder. Her voice is rough and scratchy. Somehow, it occurs to her that she doesn't even know what day of the week it is.

The whole rooms reeks of antiseptic and Buffy hates the way the floral hospital gown bunches up on her thighs and scratches her. The beeping is getting louder if possible and maybe faster but Buffy can't tell if it's the heart monitor shooting out noises or her actual heart thumping in her ears.

She fumbles for the nearest object to her—a heavy, worn out bible on her side table—and chucks it at the sleeping figure with her left arm, the one that isn't hooked up to an IV drip.

With a thud, it bounces of his forehead and lands on his lap. His eyelids snap open, jerking into an upright position, and he looks around the room in bewilderment, before his eyes land on the bible on his lap.

He rubs his forehead, "What the…"

Buffy's about three seconds from launching the small lamp next to her at him just so he can get the memo when he looks up. "You're awake!"

He grins at her for a split second, eyes lighting up at her figure, before he takes in her demeanor. "Shit, are you okay?"

Buffy shakes her head no, because she's obviously not for god's sake, and he yells for the nurse, before jumping out of the small chair and edging near her. Buffy scoots farther away from him, spine clacking against the headboard of the hospital bed.

"It's okay, Elizabeth. I'm not going to hurt you." He puts his hands up and stills, not stepping any closer to the small girl. "I'm here to help."

"It's Buffy."

"What?" He questions, cocking an eyebrow at her. He looks genuinely confused and Buffy would probably roll her eyes at him in any other situation.

"My name. It's Buffy. No one calls me by my real name."

He smiles down at her cautiously, "I'm Angel. It's actually Liam, but no one calls me by my real name either. That's something we have in common."

Angel takes a small step towards the bed, and Buffy shrinks back, curling her knees up to her chest, "Don't come near me. I just want my Mom and Dad, okay? I don't need you. I don't need anything from you. Just please," Buffy's voice cracks, "get my mom for me. Please."

Angel opens and closes his mouth, looking down at her with pity and remorse, before a figure bursts through the door frame.

"Angel, you won't believe it, but the cafeteria has Jell-O. And you wouldn't believe all the flavors; strawberry, lemon, orange…" He trails off looking at the scene splayed out in front of him, "Oh, little one woke up, didn't she? Pleasure to meet you, m'name is—"

Angel cuts him off quickly, "Spike, just go get the nurse. Please. She's scared and her pulse is off the charts."

Buffy furrows her eyebrows, because she's pretty sure she's fine right now, but as soon as she thinks it, the rapid pulse from the machine is ringing in her ears and she's got a dull thud above her left eye.

Spike grimaces at him, "Okay, alright. I'll be right back with the bloody nurse."

Spike's footsteps barely echo out the door and down the hall before he's back with a young nurse, who smiles at Buffy calmly.

She scurries around Buffy's bed and checks all her monitors, speaking soothingly to Buffy, "Hi sweetie, I'm glad you're awake. You gave us quite a scare; you lost a lot of blood." She fills up Buffy's IV bag and pats her hair soothingly. "You need to calm down though, okay? Your body can't take any more stress. I know you're scared right now, the Lord knows I would be, but everything will be alright. "

"Where are my mom and dad?"

The nurse blinks down at her, tightening her ponytail. She fidgets, the sole of her shoes squeaking against the floor. "I'll just get the doctor. He'll explain everything."

"They're dead, aren't they?" Buffy asks, tilting her head, tufts of hair falling into her eyes. "I remember it. The car went over the barrier. My mom was screaming for me to hold on. My dad was cursing and he was holding onto my mom's hand. Then it was silence."

She turns her head to Angel on the other side of the bed, "They're dead, aren't they?"

Angel shoots Spike a look, where he's rocking on his heels at the foot of her bed, "Yeah, Buffy. They've gone to a better place," He pauses, taking a breath. "I'm sorry, Buffy. But I promise you, they didn't suffer okay? It was quick." He steps toward her again, and when Buffy doesn't flinch, he daringly steps right to her side.

Buffy blinks as Angel grabs her hand—his fingers wrap around hers a squeeze gently—as he squats down to be eye level with her. "Everything will be alright. You've got me and Spike now. And there's Giles, Wes, Fred, and Gunn, too. They all will be here for you. I'm not going to let anything hurt you now."

"You're always going to be here?" Buffy asks, blowing the hair out of her eyes.

"Always."

* * *

"Well, Miss Summers, you've made an excellent—I'd say impossible—recovery." The doctor smiles at Buffy, before hanging X-rays up for everyone to look at. "You can see here that you fractured your clavicle, but," he continues, tacking up another sheet, "in this X-ray, taken today shortly after you regained consciousness, it's completely healed. I've never seen anything like it!

"Your concussion is gone and all the blood you lost was replaced quickly. I'd say you're perfectly fine now."

"Does that mean we can take her home?" Angel inquires, looking up from the magazine he was riffling through.

"I want to keep her here for a few days, just to monitor how she's doing. She was unconscious for three days, and then her heart rate was off the scales this morning. She'll probably be able to go home on Friday."

The doctor makes his way to the door when Buffy pipes up, "Did I die?"

"You mean did you legally die and then were revived? No, somehow, you fought death the entire way here."

* * *

"Do you want anything, Buffy?"

"Yeah—a three course meal, sweat pants, a regular shirt, slippers, and a maid. In that order, please and thanks."

"Don't get snappy; I'm just trying to help you out." Angel tells her, leaning against the door frame.

"So, I just had a near-death experience at the age of thirteen, both of my parents are dead, I'm wearing a dumb floral hospital gown, and you don't expect me to snap at you?" She looks at him pointedly, "I think you need to realize that I'm going to be an emotional train wreck for a while, and that Angel is a really dumb name."

He snorts and grins at her, "So, sweatpants, a shirt, slippers, and something to eat."

Buffy nods, "Sounds about right. And Angel," She says as he turns to leave her with a sleeping Spike, "Thanks. For everything."

Angel just smiles at her.

* * *

**A/N- So yeah, sorry it took so long to update. My computer was in the shop. Reviews keep me writing, so please do. I hope you like it so far!**


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy's sound asleep when Angel gets back, a cup of coffee in one hand and a plastic bag filled with three different pairs of sweatpants and four t-shirts—he isn't sure what she wants to wear; she has about eighty boxes of clothes waiting to be unpacked back at the house—and a box of fruit roll ups. He'll buy her a real breakfast tomorrow.

Spike's still asleep, but sometime in the past few hours he's moved from being dangling over the beige recliner to spread out in the empty hospital bed nearest the window since Buffy isn't sharing a room with any other patient.

Angel sighs, sets down the bag on the floor and puts his lukewarm coffee on the table. He rubs his eyes forcefully, so stars erupt in them. He could use some shut eye, considering the only sleep he's had all day is a twenty minute nap before Buffy threw a Bible at him.

He leans over Buffy's bed a bit, pulling the linens up to Buffy's chest and brushing blonde locks out of her eyes. She looks much younger asleep; not the girl who's spent the past three days in the hospital. Shrugging off his coat, finally, he pulls the recliner over to the bedside, turning the tv that been blaring cartoons off—he doesn't understand how Buffy or Spike could sleep with all the noise—and kicking the footrest up.

Yawning loudly, Angel decides he'll only close his eyes for fifteen minutes. If Buffy wakes up, she'll wake him. Only fifteen…

* * *

Angel wakes up to a weight pressing down on his chest. The golden light filtering through the window tells him it's early morning. He rubs his eyes and looks down.

It's not a weight; just Buffy.

She's asleep on him, one arm curled around his neck and the other gripping onto his shirt, chest rising and falling in an even rhythm, _inoutinoutinout._

Angel groans, he's got a crick in his neck—he'll be surprised if he's able to move it all day—and a hammering at the base of his skull. He goes to lift her back into the bed, but she grips onto him tighter and a sobbing noise emits from the back of her throat.

"No, please, don't make me go," She pleads out, and Angel's heart could just explode at the rush of fondness he feels for her, running white hot in his veins. He's sure she's still sleeping, but it wears him down because pain is about to be the only constant thing in her life.

The burning in his throat could be easily linked to his exhaustion, but the searing pain in his heart _must_ be for her.

* * *

She wakes up at eight twenty-seven, according to the crimson flashing analog clock next to the bed. She blinks up at him with sleep-ridden eyes, through the blonde fringe that's covered them, "Hi."

"Sleep well?" He teases, looking back down at her. _Vulnerable, small, easily broken, dainty—_

"Yeah," She smiles shyly, "You make a good pillow." A crinkle forms between her brows, "I still don't like you, of course," she adds as though an afterthought.

He smiles back, "Of course not."

* * *

The next three days are a whirlwind of stampeding visitors, drawing blood, checking whatever the hell needs to be checked on in a car crash victim, and the rest of the gang even pops in to meet Buffy.

Buffy shakes Wes's hand uncertainly and doesn't protest when Fred wraps her arms around her small shoulders. Gunn just settles for a high-five. They all stay and make small talk and Buffy could cry because she just feels like crying most of the time anymore. She's fine, just fine thank you, until a wave of emotion sweeps over her and she's left paralyzed until the tide fades away. It's about that time Angel offers a hug.

When Giles visits the first time-Buffy gouging into a plate of scrambled eggs and wearing the sweatpants Angel delivered (she'll never admit how hard she hugged him for it), with Angel tucked into the hospital bed with her, arm wrapped around her waist and her body resting against the left side of his chest, sleeping soundly—he shakes her hand lamely. Buffy arches her eyebrows and lets Spike talk to him.

The second time, she smiles brightly and greets him warmly, perking up from her seat in the recliner, lazily flipping the pages of a laminated magazine.

The third time, she bounds from the bed where Spike is entertaining her with card tricks to wrap her arms around his tweed-covered waist and buries her head into his chest.

In the three days, Angel becomes overprotective of her. Not in the aggressive sense; no, he just listens to her shallow breathing at all times. When she's watching cartoons, or laughing at Spike's attempts to perk her up, or just reading, he listens for the slow but sure breaths, to show she's okay.

Not emotionally, of course. But that's she's whole physically.

And when she drifts off at night, resting securely in a tangle of her limbs splayed around Angel's—for she can't sleep without him—he stays awake a little longer than her, feeling her chest rise and fall.

The rush of fondness floods his veins so often he must surely bleed it instead of blood.

* * *

"My mom used to love this show," Buffy confides in Angel one day, sprawled out on her stomach, the bed unmade and messy, with Angel leaning slightly forward in the recliner; he never leaves her.

He doesn't answer, but watches the hurt slowly seep into her body—shoulders sagging, head tilted down.

"She used to quote that line at the end every time," She continues, scratching her neck, "_'__I love you, Molly. I've always loved you.'"_

"'_Ditto.'"_

Her voice cracks at the end and Angel realizes how the pain is spreading all over her, "Buffy…"

She dismisses his worries with a wave of her hand, shaking her head, "I'm fine, Angel. Just fine."

She's still fine when she scrambles into the recliner four minutes later, eyes wet and chest aching, and lets Angel soothe her until the past almost week is just a niggling of a worry in the back of her mind.

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**A/N- I blame my inconsistent updates on my short attention span. Sorry! But I don't regret any super fluff here because _fluff._**


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